


Breathing is Just a Waste of Breath

by coricomile



Category: Bandom, Fall Out Boy
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-30
Updated: 2020-05-30
Packaged: 2021-03-03 05:40:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,825
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24449731
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coricomile/pseuds/coricomile
Summary: Patrick doesn’t show any signs of being surprised when Pete presses up against his back, just tips his head so it leans against Pete’s shoulder. His lips are shiny red, eyes glazed just a little. He grins and presses his hips back against Pete’s. The boy Patrick had been dancing with discreetly excuses himself.
Relationships: Patrick Stump/Pete Wentz
Comments: 8
Kudos: 39





	Breathing is Just a Waste of Breath

**Author's Note:**

> Cleaning out the backlog.

The music is loud, shaking the walls. It’s not anything great, but the bass pumps through the floor and makes the muscles in Pete’s legs vibrate. There’s over a hundred people pouring in and out of the house, loitering in doorways and on the porch. A couple are making out on the driveway, half on the rocks, half in the bushes. Pete sighs, somewhat nostalgic. High school parties are so much cooler than college parties.

Pete steps over the lovebirds on his way inside. The music is infinitely louder once Pete’s past the blue door and in the obnoxiously white living room. A DJ is spinning in one corner, his tables small and new. He’s an amateur, but he isn’t doing too bad so far. There’s pictures on the walls of kids with dogs and cats and plants, and the house is the same as all the rest.

It’s almost too easy to find the kitchen. The floor’s tile (a yellow and blue checked number), and the walls are off-white. There’s a bar set up in one corner. Two boys are behind it, playing bartender. One is tall and thin, pouring liquor into a nonstop flow of glasses. The other is short and broad about the chest, filling red cup after red cup with tapped beer. If Pete cranes his neck a bit, he can see the shiny silver lids of three kegs. He’s impressed. These kids mean business.

“Rum and Coke,” Pete shouts to the tall kid. The boy gives him a little salute and pours the drink diligently. Pete nods his head as he takes the cup, already wandering back into the living room again. The DJ’s put something better on. Pete bobs his head in time to the beat, sipping his drink. He’s pretty sure it’d go up in flames if he held a match to it.

Sometime between his second rum and Coke and his first gin and tonic, he catches sight of Patrick. He’s pushing his way through hot little bodies, cup held high, to catch up. He comes to a standstill when he actually takes a good look at him.

Patrick’s a little sweaty. His hair is messy under his cap, bushy little sideburns damp. His shirt is yellow and sticks to his back, wet. It’s tight, outlining the lines of his chest and sides. A tiny sliver of white peeks between the ragged hem of his shirt and the waistband of Patrick’s jeans.

And, oh, his jeans. They’re dark, just this shade of blue, and have wear holes just visible on the insides of the thighs They look painted on, hugging the swell of his ass like it's their sole purpose. Every time Patrick moves, a flash of pale inner thigh shows and the denim pulls even tighter across his ass.

Patrick’s dancing with a boy Pete doesn’t recognize (and Pete is not jealous because Patrick is his, his, his and he knows it.) He’s keeping his hands to himself like a good boy, but there’s only a few inches between them. Patrick’s got his arms over his head, wrists crossed loosely. His hips are swaying with the beat, sides lean and long with every twist.

Pete can’t keep his eyes off of Patrick’s ass. It’s round and moving back and just begging to be grabbed. Pete’s dick jumps. He knocks back the rest of his drink and drops the cup carelessly to the floor.

Patrick doesn’t show any signs of being surprised when Pete presses up against his back, just tips his head so it leans against Pete’s shoulder. His lips are shiny red, eyes glazed just a little. He grins and presses his hips back against Pete’s. Pete groans. His hands fall to Patrick’s waist, fingertips sliding under the soft shirt. The boy Patrick had been dancing with discreetly excuses himself.

“Didn’t think you were gonna show up,” Patrick says, dropping his arms back to loop around Pete’s neck. Pete runs a hand over Patrick’s stretched stomach. Drags his nails over cotton and hot skin.

“Liar,” Pete replies. Patrick smirks. He rubs his ass against Pete’s dick; a slow circle that makes his back slide against Pete’s chest. Pete grabs his hips against and yanks him back. Patrick laughs. Pete’s hard. It turns him on even more knowing that, with the way he’s stretched out, everyone can see Patrick is, too. Patrick slides a hand down his own neck, across his chest. He pinches one of his own nipples and his hips jerk, and that is so the final straw.

Pete wraps one hand around Patrick’s wrist, damp and hot and maybe too tight, and drags him through the crush of bodies toward the bathroom. Patrick laughs the whole way. Pete kicks the door shut once they’re inside, slamming Patrick up against it. Patrick laughs again, but it’s breathy. His eyes are dark, pupils huge.

Pete kisses him like he’s dying, needy and strong and wet with too much tongue. Patrick kisses back just as fiercely. His fingers tangle in Pete’s hair, and it’s totally fucking up an hour’s worth of work, but Pete so does not care about that right now. Their hips press together, dicks rubbing through their jeans.

Pete shoves a hand between their bodies to palm at Patrick’s crotch. He revels in the high, mewling sounds made against his jaw. It takes a few tries to get the fly of Patrick’s jeans undone, but when he does, Pete’s rewarded with bare skin.

“Didn’t think I was gonna make it, huh?” Pete asks, tugging Patrick’s dick roughly. Patrick moans, head tipping back. He squirms, lifting his hips in attempt to get more friction. “You’re such a slut for it.” Pete presses his mouth to Patrick’s throat. He can feel the rapid pulse under his lips like it’s his own. “I’m gonna fuck you until you can’t walk straight.” Patrick’s hips stutter.

Pete lets go of him to undo his own fly, ignoring Patrick’s noise of complaint. He shoves his jeans down far enough to let his cock pop out, the head slick already. Patrick looks down at it. Licks his lips. Pete bites back a groan. He grabs Patrick’s shoulders and pushes him to his knees.

“Blow me,” he says hoarsely. Patrick licks his lips again and leans forward. His mouth is hot and wet, and he has the grace to just go straight to work. Pete knocks Patrick’s hat away and grabs a handful of hair, pulling. Patrick winces but doesn’t pull off. Pete watches Patrick’s head bob. Watches the glide of his wet lips through heavy-lidded eyes.

Patrick wraps a hand around the base of Pete’s dick and works his mouth along with it in one long slide. His cheeks are hollowed, flushed. The soft red of his hair is sticking to his temples and forehead. Pete tightens his fingers, and Patrick lets his mouth go slack. Pete has at it.

He thrust his hips hard, eyes sliding shut. Patrick’s making wet, breathy sounds. His fingers are digging into Pete’s thighs, and Pete is way too fucking close. He pulls out suddenly, and a line of spit and precome dribbles down over Patrick’s swollen lower lip.

“Take your pants off,” Pete gasps. Patrick does so immediately, shoving them off his legs like they’re on fire. “Hands and knees.” He does a little circle, turning so he can shove his ass back at Pete, waggling it a little as he gets comfortable. It’s pale and soft and Pete can’t resist lapping one cheek with the flat of his palm. Patrick whimpers.

Pete kneels behind him, running his hands up his back. The skin is damp, sweat pooling in the dimple above his ass. Pete leans in and laps the sweat away. Patrick’s thighs shake. Pete grabs handfuls of fleshy asscheeks. He spreads them, presses them together. Runs a finger down the crease in between.

Patrick’s hole tenses as the pad of Pete thumb comes to rest over it. Pete presses a kiss to the bump of tailbone. Licks a broad swipe down to meet his thumb. Patrick chokes on his own breath. He pushes his hips back, asking for more. Pete spreads him open wider and presses the flat of his tongue to the hole.

It’s salty and musky and Patrick, and it all belongs to Pete. No one else has been, or will ever be, here. Pete traces the outside ring with the pointed tip of his tongue, circling around and around. Patrick keens when Pete presses it in, a hand shooting to his dick.

“No.” Pete pulls away. Patrick shoves his hips back, impatient. “You can’t come until I say so.” Pete nuzzles the crack of Patrick’s ass. He presses one finger in slowly. It’s dry, but he has plans on changing that. He tongues around his finger, sloppy and wet and without any rhythm.

“Pete,” Patrick groans when Pete shoves a second finger in. Pete scissors his fingers apart, stretching him. He’s so hard he’s seeing crooked. He spits on Patrick’s hole, working his fingers in and out too fast. Too rough. Patrick’s rocking back against them wantonly though, and Pete wants to fuck him into the ground right the fuck now. ”Come on, come on. I’m ready, I’m fucking ready.” This is all the assurance Pete needs.

He lines up and thrusts in, groaning at the feel. Patrick’s so fucking tight and hot, and he’s already rocking back. His arm’s shaking with the effort of not touching himself, and Pete loveshimloveshimloveshim so damn much.

Pete grips Patrick’s hips, pulling them against his own. His zipper is pressing a red line into the pale skin of Patrick’s thigh, but Pete does not care because he is too busy trying not to burst at the seams.

“Pete, fuck, Pete.” Patrick’s moaning and whining and letting out curses, and Pete loves that voice, and he’s not going to last much longer.

“Patrick.” He digs his nails into a fleshy hip, eyes slipping closed. “You can come if you let me come on your face.”

“Okay, okay, just, please.” Patrick lets out a whine when Pete pulls out, but turns around, sitting up on his knees. He opens his mouth, tongue slipping out to slide against the wet head of Pete’s dick. Pete’s hips jerk, and he’s coming hard. Thick streaks splatter against Patrick’s pink cheeks, and red lips. A line of it lands inside his still-open mouth. Pete is going to be jerking off to this image for years. He falls to his knees and reaches down to jerk at Patrick’s cock. One, tow, three pulls, and then hot, wet heat explodes onto Pete’s hand.

Patrick sighs contentedly and leans back against the door. He cracks open one eye when Pete crawls up into his arm. There’s a grin at the edges of his (still wet, still stained) lips. Pete kisses away the mess.

They don’t go back to the party.


End file.
